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TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE

the  spirit upon  truth  which  delighted, eased,
sustained—falsely perhaps.

(" Nature has but little clay ", said Mr. Bankes
once, hearing her voice on the telephone, and much
moved by it though she was only telling him a fact
about a train, " like that of which she moulded
you." He saw her at the end of the line,
Greek, blue-eyed, straight-nosed. How incon-
gruous it seemed to be telephoning to a woman
like that. The Graces assembling seemed to
have joined hands in meadows of asphodel to
compose that face. Yes, he would catch the
10.30 at Euston.

" But she's no more aware of her beauty than
a child," said Mr. Bankes, replacing the receiver
and crossing the room to see what progress the
workmen were making with an hotel which they
were building at the back of his house. And he
thought of Mrs. Ramsay as he looked at that stir
among the unfinished walls. For always, he
thought, there was something incongruous to be
worked into the harmony of her face. She clapped
a, deer-stalker's hat on her head; she ran across
the lawn in goloshes to snatch a child from
mischief. So that if it was her beauty merely
that one thought of, one must remember the
quivering thing, the living thing (they were
carrying bricks up a little plank as he watched
5°